But after everything happened, hell, it had obviously changed him somewhat, even though he wasn’t directly involved. It was his brother, for God’s sake. His brother and his sister-in-law. And here I was, his nephew… eight years old then and officially homeless. The State of Michigan would have taken me away otherwise, put me God knows where with God knows whom. It’s hard to even imagine how my life would have worked out if that had happened. Maybe I’d be a model citizen right now. Or maybe I’d be dead. Who knows? The way it worked out, it was Uncle Lito who took me to his house in Milford, about fifty miles away from that little brick house on Victoria Street. Fifty miles away from that place where my young life should have ended. After a few months giving it a try, they let him sign the papers and he became my legal guardian.

I know he didn’t have to do it. He didn’t have to do anything for me. If you ever hear me complain about the man, don’t lose sight of that bottom line, okay? Here’s the first problem, though. If you want to start your life over, you need to move more than fifty miles away. Fifty miles is not far enough to get away from your old life, or to avoid having everyone you meet still know you as the person you were.

It’s not nearly far enough if you’ve already become famous for something you want to forget forever.

And the town of Milford itself… well, I know it’s a yuppie little “exurb” now, but back then it was still just a working-class little hick town with a Main Street that ran cockeyed under a railroad bridge. No matter how many flashing lights and big yellow signs they put up, they probably averaged two or three accidents every month. Just from the drunken idiots who couldn’t negotiate that sudden little jog in the road that took you within inches of the concrete embankments. Hell, just my uncle’s customers alone… because his liquor store was right next to the bridge. Lito’s Liquors. On the other side was a restaurant called the Flame.